A Crack in the Foundation
by JaimeCC
Summary: Tony gets a late night visitor. *Inspiration came from the finale and the story includes spoilers for everything that's aired so far.
1. Chapter 1

It was late, or early depending on how one looked at the clock, and Tony couldn't sleep.

Trying to find a comfortable position in bed just sent pain shooting from his broken clavicle and torn shoulder muscles. So instead, he sat as still as possible in his recliner-one of the few positions that kept his pain down to a dull throb-and sipped at a glass full of bourbon while _Rio Bravo_ quietly played on his plasma.

It was probably just as well that he couldn't sleep, because every time he closed his eyes for longer then a few seconds, he relived that fateful night when everything fell apart around him.

He could still feel everything.

Not just the pain from the blows he traded with Rivkin as he fought for his life, but the near-paralyzing fear as well.

He knew without a doubt that he had been seriously outclassed in that fight.

He was an investigator, a cop trained to subdue criminals-and to avoid the use of deadly force whenever possible-going up against an experienced assassin who had no qualms about killing in cold blood.

All he could do was hold onto the miniscule possibility that maybe, just maybe, his opponent would slip up and give him the opening he needed to gain the upper hand.

But then Rivkin broke out of their grapple and rendered his right arm useless.

He remembered thinking that he was going to die as Rivkin put him into a choke hold. The light was beginning to fade as he struggled, using his one good arm to try and do something, anything, to break free.

And, miraculously, he somehow managed to throw Rivkin off balance just enough so that he could bend his knees and push up off the floor with all his might.

Throwing both of their bodies backwards and onto that glass coffee table…

Tony took another gulp of bourbon.

God, that stuff burned all the way to the bottom.

And it wasn't a particularly pleasant burn, but it was what he needed.

Because he could also see _her_ face as she burst through the door, weapon at the ready.

He could see her eyes as they traveled from his own gun, to his injured form, and to her lover lying face down on the floor with three bullets in his heart.

He could see her running across the short distance, completely ignoring him, to cradle the body of the dead man lying beside him.

Tony drained the last of the bourbon in his glass and winced as he forced the too-large gulp down his throat and into his stomach.

He set his glass down and refilled it from his rapidly emptying bottle while-on screen-John Wayne was confronting Dean Martin about his out of control drinking.

A knock came from his door.

Tony ignored the first knock and took a sip from his glass.

Another knock, more insistent this time, forced him to put down his drink and reach for the remote control with a wince to pause the movie.

But still, he waited.

A third time.

This time the knocking sounded almost angry, so Tony pushed himself out of his recliner, and after shakily finding his balance with the arm that wasn't in a sling, slowly padded to his door.

He opened the door without checking to see who it was and saw that it was Ziva, with her hand raised to try knocking again.

Their eyes met, although neither betrayed any emotion through them, until finally he wordlessly turned around and walked back inside.

If Ziva wanted to come in, she could follow. If she didn't, he was currently beyond caring if she left the door open or not.

He heard the door open wider and Ziva's distinct footsteps as she came inside as well. She closed the door before continuing to follow Tony inside.

"Do you want anything to drink?" he asked over his shoulder while he walked further back into his apartment. It wasn't out of courtesy but as a way to drown out the pounding silence that filled his apartment and the ever-growing rift between him and Ziva. "I've got soda, beer-"

Click.

Tony froze at that sound.

It was that of a handgun's hammer being cocked.

It was an unmistakable sound, one he'd heard too many times to mistake for something else.

He slowly turned to see Ziva, wearing leather gloves and pointing a gun, with a silencer threaded onto the barrel, straight at him.

"Okay," Tony said as he nodded his head. "Okay."

He turned away from Ziva and the gun, and headed to his recliner.

With a resigned sigh, he sat down and leaned back into the soft leather of his chair. He unpaused the movie he'd been watching and reached for his bourbon as John Wayne and Dean Martin resumed arguing on the screen before him.

"Do what you have to do."

He listened to Ziva's footsteps as she came up behind him. He could feel the cold metal of the silencer just a fraction of an inch from the back of his head.

Any moment now, there would be a muffled pop, and it would all be over.

"Dying while doing something I love," Tony said as a corner of his mouth twitched up into a humorless smile. "I don't think that there are too many people who get a chance like this."

He took a sip of his drink and waited.

And waited.

But the shot didn't come.

Instead, Ziva walked around his chair. Her gun was lowered, but he could see that her arm was tensed so that she could bring her weapon to bear before he could even blink.

His eyes traveled from her glove-clad hand, up her arm, and to her face so they locked eyes once more.

Those beautiful brown eyes that used to look at him with amusement, annoyance, and concern now glared at him with a simmering anger that threatened to boil over and scald him.

"Why could you not stay out of it?" she asked in a strained voice. "Why could you not leave it alone?"

Tony's answer did not come fast enough for Ziva. She closed the short distance between them in a flash, so that she was practically on the recliner with Tony, and pressing the muzzle of the silencer up against the soft flesh beneath his jaw.

"TELL ME!"

Tony's wince as the rocking of his chair sent pain shooting from his injured shoulder sent a wave of satisfaction through Ziva's body. She brought her face close to Tony's so that their breaths were practically mingling.

"Tell me…" she hissed as she pressed her gun tighter against his skin, tilting his head back even further.

Tony grunted at the strain she was putting on his neck and spoke, feeling the metal of her gun's silencer pressing harder against him as his mouth moved.

"He killed an ICE agent and tried to bug a top secret meeting…"

He forced his head back down, daring to push against the loaded gun she held so that he would not have to look down his nose in order to make eye contact.

"And he was playing you, Ziva. Got close to you and used you as an asset for the intelligence you could provide."

Ziva shook her head, refusing to believe what he was telling her. "No."

"It was just like I did with Jeanne," Tony continued. "And I had to stop him before he could go any further, because…"

His voice trailed off for a moment before he spoke again, but in those few seconds of silence, she saw him look at her in the way she had yearned for. She thought she had given up all hope of seeing those emotions being directed at her, but here they were, with him finally-but silently-showing her the depths of his feelings for her as she held a gun on him with her finger on the trigger.

Tony shook his head slightly and the movement was telegraphed through the gun to her hand as he finished his sentence, "I didn't want to see you go through what I put her through."

Ziva blinked as she remembered finding out about the full extent of Tony's undercover assignment.

He had gotten close to Jeanne Benoit, an innocent woman whose only crime was having been the daughter of Le Grenouille, in order to find a way to get to her father.

He engaged the woman in a sexual relationship and had manipulated her feelings, inadvertently or otherwise, to get her to fall in love with him in order to attain his goal.

And in the end, when the mission concluded, he left behind a heart-broken woman who, mourning the murder of her father, threw away a promising career as a surgeon at a prestigious DC hospital to try and find a new beginning elsewhere.

Ziva remembered looking at Jeanne after the woman had accused Tony of killing her father and how she appeared to be nothing but a shell of a human as she attempted to find reason in a world that was nothing like the one she once knew.

That was when Ziva's anger morphed into revulsion as she finally allowed herself to realize what had been going on.

There _had_ been a leak at NCIS.

And it had been her.

Mossad, her own agency, had taken advantage of her position and the friendships-real, trusting, friendships and not simply connections that were to be used until no longer useful to her–she had cultivated in order to further its own agenda.

And such a directive could have only come from the top.

From her father.

Her own father had ordered one of his officers to get close to her. Earn her trust, gain her affection, and then exploit her feelings in order to obtain intelligence from an allied nation and firm supporter in their fight for existence.

Her father had used her-his own _daughter_-in a way that was normally reserved for potential weak links in enemy organizations.

People who could be manipulated and used, only to be discarded once they were used up.

Ziva felt as though she was going to be sick.

She fell backwards off of the recliner and stumbled away from Tony. For a moment, it seemed as if she would trip and fall, and he automatically tried to stand up to catch her, a move made awkward by the fact that he only had one arm with which to push himself out of his seat.

"Ziva?" he asked softly. "Are you alright?"

Tony took a hesitant step forward and slowly reached his good arm out towards her.

Had the situation been any different, she would have laughed at Tony's concern. Only he would completely ignore the danger at hand to focus on her welfare.

And it made her heartache all the more worse as she could not let herself accept the comfort he was offering.

"No!" Ziva's gun hand shot up and shakily pointed her gun at his chest. "Stay back!"

Tony abruptly stopped in his tracks.

"Ziva…"

She looked down at the gun in her hand as if it had suddenly become an object that was entirely foreign to her.

"I-I-I must…"

She decocked the hammer and hastily put the gun down on Tony's coffee table with a clatter before brushing past him to exit his apartment as fast as possible.

The elevator would not come fast enough so she took the stairs, leaping down the stairwell two, three steps at a time until she reached the ground floor.

She quickly walked across the lobby, not even sparing a glance at the sleeping doorman, and threw open the building's front door to walk out into the muggy DC night.

But her progress was abruptly halted by Gibbs' familiar figure waiting for her on the sidewalk.

His eyes seemed to possess double their normal intensity as he took in her appearance.

She looked down and realized-with a sudden burst of fear-that his eyes had stopped on her leather glove clad hands. Such articles of clothing were completely incongruous for this time of year and there were only a few reasons as to why someone with her background would wear them in summer.

Ziva shivered as she saw the icy and calculating look in Gibbs' eyes when they came back up to meet hers. And for the first time in years, she felt true terror.

"I did not hurt him," she stammered when she thought Gibbs was about to move forward to grab her. "He is still alive."

"He better be," Gibbs growled as he side stepped around her to enter Tony's building.

He did not look back to check if she was still there or if she was gone as he ignored the elevators and took the stairs up to Tony's floor.

Now alone on the sidewalk, Ziva began walking to where she had parked her car several blocks away.

In the quiet of the extremely early morning, her thoughts rang loudly and clearly through her head.

She had failed to carry out the orders given to her by Mossad.

But in her attempt to carry them out she went against her friends and broke the trust they had placed in her.

She could not turn to either of them now.

One would kill her while the other would never look at her in the same way again.

Tears began pooling in her eyes and she did not even try to stop them

Because she now knew where she stood in the world.

She was alone.

* * *

**Hi, everyone!**

**This is my first attempt at writing fanfic, and it would be awesome if you guys could give me some feedback and suggestions.**

**Thanks!**

**-Jaime  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all your wonderful reviews! I hope you keep them coming!**

* * *

Gibbs mentally counted off the floors as he dashed up the stairs and burst out the door when he reached the right one.

Tony had kept the lease on his apartment even while out at sea out of a need to have someplace he could call home while he was away. It had been years since he'd been here, but Gibbs didn't need to look at the apartment numbers as he moved, because he was familiar with the corridors from when he used to occasionally visit his senior agent.

A lifetime spent tracking people over rough terrain made Gibbs' footsteps practically silent on the thinly carpeted floor as he quickly made his way to Tony's door. He was almost there when he noticed that an apartment door was partially open.

Forcing himself to calm down as a surge of adrenaline sent his heart racing, Gibbs skidded to a stop and pressed his back against the wall. His right hand moved to the old M1911, his off-duty weapon, at his hip as he slowly shuffled the last few feet to his objective. He could hear voices coming from inside the apartment, but they were too soft for him to actually make out.

His weapon now out and at the ready, Gibbs gently toed the door open all the way and stepped inside.

The interior was dimly lit. A couple of lamps cast an orange glow onto the walls, while flickering silver shadows indicated that the TV was on.

Gibbs tightened his grip on his gun and moved further into the apartment, carefully watching where he was stepping to minimize any noise. The voice he'd heard outside became clearer to his ears. The volume was still too low for him to make out the actual words that were being said but there was no mistaking John Wayne's distinct drawl.

He slowly made his way into Tony's living room. The furniture hadn't changed much since he'd last seen it. It all faced away from the wall he had his back to and was arranged around the main focus of the room: a high-end entertainment system that was currently playing a western. On the coffee table, he saw a half-empty bottle of amber liquid and a gun.

One glance told Gibbs that it wasn't the weapon Tony carried with him when not on the job.

"Tony?" Gibbs called out softly, urgency rising in his voice. His eyes caught sight of a tuft of brown hair peeking over the back of the recliner.

"Tony!" he said again, louder this time.

The tuft of hair moved a bit, and Tony's voice quietly said, "Place is clear, Boss."

Gibbs relaxed and let his gun hand dangle by his thigh. He walked up to where Tony was sitting.

The younger man didn't seem to acknowledge his proximity. Gibbs followed Tony's gaze to a series of picture frames that sat on top of a case containing part of his famous movie collection.

"Glasses are in the kitchen," Tony said. He turned his head to look up at Gibbs, his eyes sad and vacant. "And could you close the door?

Gibbs nodded, holstered his weapon, and turned to comply with Tony's request. He closed the door and stopped by the kitchen to grab a glass out of the proper cabinet before heading back to the living room.

He sat himself on the sofa and grabbed the bottle on the coffee table. He topped off the glass Tony held in his left hand and filled his own before replacing the bottle. As he did so, Gibbs took a look at the gun that was lying there. It was a small .22 with a silencer on the barrel.

A close quarter weapon.

An assassin's weapon.

He knew that it was most likely a throwaway gun, purchased using a false ID or a stolen one. A gun such as this was only intended to be used once before being discarded, and in the event that it was found, all traces would lead to dead ends or unsuspecting people who had no idea that they were the owners of a firearm used in a murder.

Gibbs leaned back and took a glance at the TV. Dean Martin appeared on Tony's plasma and, from the badges he and John Wayne wore, Gibbs immediately identified the movie as _Rio Bravo_ and not _The Sons of Katie Elder_.

Shannon had been a Dean Martin fan, and had gotten Kelly hooked as well. She'd played his records over and over again, and with the advent of video cassettes, had made her pop culture challenged husband watch "Dino's" movies with her.

Gibbs looked back at Tony and saw that he'd barely moved, although the level of bourbon in Tony's glass told Gibbs that he was at least moving his good arm. His eyes, however, had definitely not moved from the picture frames.

From his new vantage point Gibbs took a look at the photos contained in the frames. His eyes skimmed over photos of a much younger Tony with friends in college and a few of Tony when he was still a uniform beat cop surrounded by officers he used worked with. Then there were various photos of the team at NCIS, including a group shot that had been taken when Kate was still alive.

But of them all, one stood out. It was the only one that wasn't a group photograph and showed Ziva with her hair down and smiling softly for the camera. Gibbs was unfamiliar with the location, so it was impossible to tell when or where it had been taken.

Tony let out a breath through his nose and Gibbs turned to see him looking down at his glass of bourbon as he swirled it around.

"I'm thinking one more year-or year and a half depending on how things go…" Tony's voice trailed off a bit before he looked up at Gibbs. "Then I move onto Plan B."

Gibbs thought about what Tony said for a long moment.

Tony had been working for him for nearly nine years. While everyone else before him either quit or transferred to positions under less exacting supervisors as soon as possible, Tony had toughed it out. In fact, for most of his first three years at NCIS, Tony had handled nearly all the jobs within the MCRT on his own before a more permanent team fell into place. But by the time that happened, Gibbs' workaholic habits had become his own, and he'd been steadily working himself towards a burnout ever since.

Jenny's death had nearly pushed Tony beyond the brink-though he had hid it well-and when it seemed as if he was finally pulling himself back together, he found himself caught up in another spy game and end up hurt both physically and emotionally.

Tony still had a lot of good years left in him. Maybe getting away from the convoluted mess that had taken over NCIS would be for the best, so Gibbs finally said, "If that's what you want,"

"That's the problem," Tony sighed. "I don't know what I want."

"Yeah," Gibbs took a swallow of bourbon, not really feeling it as it went down. "I've been there."

* * *

Ducky was up early and driving his old wooden Morgan to the Navy Yard in the hopes of avoiding the weekend rush of families trying to enjoy the last traces of spring before the infamous DC summer began in earnest.

The medical examiner rarely ventured into the city on his days off, but there was some work he needed to catch up on and he also wished to stop by and visit Tony as well.

Tony was scheduled to go into surgery for his shoulder in a few days, and Ducky wanted to check and make sure he hadn't accidentally aggravated his injuries any further, for there was a good chance that if Tony wasn't careful, he could lose full range of motion in his right arm.

Ducky turned a corner and drove along while absently humming _Vesti La Giubba_ under his breath. Street signs and buildings that had become imprinted in his brain over countless commutes passed by without his really noticing. But then he saw a familiar-looking figure walking on the sidewalk ahead of him. As he got closer he recognized the figure as Ziva.

He knew she usually got up early to go running, but they were nowhere near her apartment building, nor was she wearing running gear. Instead, she was wearing regular street clothes and was walking with her head bowed down and her arms crossed over her as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

Ducky slowed down the Morgan until he roughly matched Ziva's pace and called out, "Ziva?"

She heard him, and turned to see who was calling her out of reflex. But when she saw the classic car and who was driving it, she quickened her pace to try and get away without attracting attention from the few people who were out at this early hour.

Ducky was immediately alarmed and pressed his foot down on the accelerator to pull ahead of Ziva and jumped out of his car as soon as he pulled the brake.

"Ziva, is something the matter?" he asked as he got up onto the sidewalk and stepped in front of her.

But Ziva didn't answer and turned on her heel to walk the other way.

Ducky ran after her and reached out to touch her arm as soon as he was close enough.

"Ziva, whatever it is, tell me," he said, out of breath. He wasn't as young as he once was. "Let me help."

Ziva halted and looked at the hand that lay on her arm.

Any other time she would have jerked her arm away and stalked off, or, if she was angry enough, lay the person who dared to touch her flat their back.

But she found herself unable to move, frozen in her tracks, for Ducky's hand on her arm wasn't gripping or squeezing to try and keep her from walking away. It was just a touch-gentle, comforting, and one she rarely felt since the death of her sister-that silently asked her to stay. And when she turned to look at him, his eyes contained nothing but concern for her well-being.

If he only knew what she had tried to do earlier.

Then Ducky, her guide to the immigrant experience in America, would hate and shun her like everyone else rightly should.

Like Tony and Gibbs already did.

But Ducky didn't know the whole story.

He just saw the turmoil of emotions within Ziva's eyes and knew that the normally stoic young woman was utterly at a loss on how to handle them.

"Come with me," Ducky said, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and ushered her towards where his Morgan sat at an angle to the curb with its engine still running.

He could feel that Ziva was not sure if she wanted to come with him but was still allowing herself to be moved. After shooing away a young man who was admiring the car a little too closely, Ducky opened the passenger side door and helped Ziva inside before running around to the driver's side and settling himself in the seat.

They were soon pulling away and driving back the way Ducky had come.

Work would have to wait.

* * *

Jordan Hampton heard the rumble of the engine approaching and stood up and straightened her back from where she'd been tending to a patch of freshly-planted flowers in the Mallard estate's front garden.

She checked her watch to make sure that she wasn't mistaken, for Ducky had told her he intended to spend the entire morning in the city, and by her calculations, he hadn't been gone long enough to have even made it all the way to the Navy Yard.

The Morgan came to a stop and the engine cut out. Jordan walked up as Ducky stepped out.

"Hey, what are you doing back so soon?" she asked. "I thought you were going to be…"

Jordan's voice trailed off when she saw the striking, olive-skinned woman sitting in the passenger seat. She remembered the woman's name as Ziva from the few times they'd met. And unlike the quietly confident woman of their earlier meetings, Ziva looked as if she was completely lost.

"What's going on?" Jordan asked Ducky. "Is everything alright?"

"No…" Ducky shook his head sadly. "And I have a feeling that things are going to get a lot worse before we can even think about sorting everything out."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, everybody. The continuing feedback on this story has been great. Thanks!**

**In this chapter, and in several future ones as well, I'm going to be presenting a take on the characters' personalities and sexualities that is different from what is generally shown in other stories on this site.**

**I hope you'll tell me what you think in your reviews.**

**Thanks!**

**- Jaime**

* * *

Ducky had brought Ziva inside to the sitting room. He could immediately tell that she had not been eating properly since Rivkin's death, so he headed to the kitchen to prepare some food, giving Ziva's shoulder a little squeeze of comfort as he left.

Jordan joined him, after having put away her gardening things first, a little while later and began pulling things from the cupboards to help.

"What's gong on?" Jordan asked as Ducky popped slices of bread into the toaster.

"Or should I not be asking?" she added, knowing that Ducky was often involved in top secret activity through his work.

Ducky looked over from where he'd put a kettle of water on to boil and said, with all due seriousness, "She lost someone this week."

"Oh."

Jordan looked towards the kitchen door and remembered how lost Ziva had looked when Ducky pulled up to the house just a few minutes earlier.

"Yes," Ducky continued. "And she is just beginning to openly show some sort of reaction."

Jordan turned back to look at Ducky. "Was this person close to her?"

"Yes, but…" his voice trailed off.

"But?" Jordan prodded gently.

"It's quite complicated, and I'm not sure how much of the story I'm allowed to tell."

The toaster popped just then, and while Ducky busied himself with it, Jordan took the opportunity to step outside and briefly observe the young woman sitting on one of the house's antique sofas.

From a distance, she couldn't see Ziva's red and puffy eyes, the tracks her tears had left on her cheeks, or the tears that continued to pool in her eyes. But Jordan could see Ziva's posture and how she was hunched with her arms crossed in front of her torso, tense and ready to run at a moment's notice, even if she didn't know where she was going to run to.

It was something Jordan saw all too often as a medical examiner for the District of Columbia.

She stepped back to the kitchen and saw Ducky carefully slicing the pieces of toast with a bread knife.

"Melba toast?" she asked as she watched Ducky put the newly sliced toast back into the toaster.

"Yes. Created by the French chef Auguste Escoffier for Dame Nellie Melba, the opera prima donna," Ducky said.

And after a beat, he added, "Mother would make it for me when I was feeling ill."

The kettle started squealing from the stove. Ducky walked over to turn the gas off and set about preparing a pot of tea.

"Would you check the toast, please?" he asked Jordan. "It should be done by now."

Jordan nodded and did as Ducky asked. She took the thinly-sliced toast out of the toaster, added her own little touch by cutting it diagonally into triangles, and placed it on a plate. The plate then went onto a tray upon which Ducky added the pot of tea he'd just made.

Ducky was about to pick the tray up to take to Ziva, but he remembered something and took a step back.

"I have to make a phone call," he said as he slowly turned around.

Jordan could see that whatever it was, this phone call was as important as the young woman currently in the sitting room, so she said, "Go. I'll take this out to Ziva."

Ducky gave her a grateful smile and said, "Thank you."

Jordan smiled back and picked up the tray to take it to the sitting room while Ducky went off to make his phone call.

* * *

Ziva felt sick.

Physically sick.

If it was not for the fact that she had been barely eating for the past several days, she was sure she would be bent over a toilet, vomiting up the contents of her stomach.

So this was how it felt.

So this was how it felt to be the one that was used.

In the aftermath of Jenny's death, hurting from her loss and out of contact from her friends, she found herself readily accepting the attention Michael began spending on her.

After years of being confused and stonewalled while in the States, it felt good to be wanted. She began to believe that she had finally found something that was real and lasting, because, despite all of her teasing and flirting with Tony, and baiting him with the possibility that she was a screamer in bed, she was, in actuality, not particularly comfortable with relationships and sex.

She never had the chance to become comfortable.

She had lost her virginity as a private in the Israeli Defense Force to a fellow soldier. It had been a somewhat awkward night that led to an extremely tentative relationship that simply faded away once her fifteen month term ended.

After being discharged from the military, she was immediately recruited by Mossad and became too busy with training to even think about sex, relationships, or even any sort of personal life whatsoever. Plus, her father's reputation meant that the men she was in contact with did not dare to engage her in any manner beyond professionalism.

They told her in training that she would need to be prepared to do whatever it takes in order to complete her objective. And on missions, there had been occasions when she needed to engage in sexual activity in order to maintain her cover or to gain the trust of potential intelligence assets.

Those experiences always invariably left her feeling disgusted with herself, and cold and empty inside.

Once the missions were over and she was back home, she would spend days washing herself. Practically scalding her skin, scrubbing herself raw, while trying to rid herself of all evidence of what she had done as she questioned her effectiveness as an operative in the service of the state of Israel.

Because, maybe if she had been better at her job, she would not have had to debase herself in such a disgusting manner.

In her precious spare time, she threw herself into more domestic pursuits, like cooking and sewing, in an attempt to create a world entirely separate from that of her profession, but the memories always came back to haunt her.

She tried telling herself that she was working for a higher cause.

That the information obtained through her sacrificing her body and dignity contributed to the security of her people.

And that made her better than a common prostitute.

But now…as she considered her role in the events of the past couple of weeks…

What was she, exactly?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft clatter of a tray being placed on the low table before her. She looked up to see Jordan softly smiling from above the teapot and plate of toast.

"Here," Jordan said gently. "Donald made you some toast and tea."

There was something about the woman's smile and voice that broke through the last of Ziva's control, and the tears that had, until now, fallen silently turned into sobs that shook her body,

She found herself wrapped in a gentle hug with a quiet voice whispering in her ear-the words not mattering as much as the tone with which they were being said.

"Hey, hey…Shh…"

She remembered how her mother, Tali, and even Ari, in more innocent times would comfort her when she was hurt or upset. They instinctively knew when something was troubling her, just as she could tell when they were not feeling alright.

But the harsh realities of quickly approaching adulthood, living in a country beset by violence, and her father's position and agenda took them away from her, one by one, along with her own ability to openly empathize with people around her.

And so she clung onto this one last piece of warmth that was being offered by someone who was almost a complete stranger to her. For once the truth of how she came to be here came out, she would be shunned forever.

* * *

"Yeah. I got it. Do what you think is best, Duck."

Gibbs ended his phone call with his old friend and snapped his phone shut. He put the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to the coffee machine percolating in front of him.

With a final gurgle, the last few drops of the rich black brew dripped into the urn. Gibbs grabbed the handle and poured two mugs full of coffee. He took a breath and the aroma brought a small smile to his face.

Tony and he didn't have the same taste in blends, but that wasn't much of a hurdle in getting the coffee just right.

Strong enough so that the fumes themselves perked him up.

After remembering to add cream and sugar to Tony's mug, Gibbs took the two coffees into Tony's living room.

"Thanks, Boss," Tony said as he accepted the proffered mug. His speech was only slightly slurred despite having consumed about three-quarters of a bottle of bourbon.

Gibbs sat down with his own mug and took a sip of the scalding hot liquid.

Tony took a sip of his coffee, silently glad that Gibbs remembered that he didn't enjoy the stuff black, before asking, "What was that call about?"

"Nothing that can't wait," Gibbs replied as he drank his own, unadulterated, coffee.

"Oh."

The two men drank their coffee in silence as the latest news from ZNN played on the muted TV, although neither of them was paying much attention to it. Tony's eyes rarely strayed from the photograph of Ziva and Gibbs was taking the opportunity to look at Tony's apartment in sunlight for the first time.

It was always a bit of a surprise to walk into Tony's apartment because it did not reflect the image the man projected to the world. It was warm and inviting, and filled with furniture that-while pleasant to look at-was clearly chosen more for comfort than style.

If it wasn't for the contents of the displayed photographs and the lack of toys lying around, one could have easily believed that a family with young children lived here.

In fact, the only things that ever matched people's expectations were the shelves full of movies, and the very expensive entertainment center that was upgraded every few years.

"You don't have to stick around, you know," Tony said softly, taking Gibbs' attention away from the record player that sat next to a glass cabinet full of old vinyl records.

Tony continued, "I'll be fine. Abby said she'd come over today."

Gibbs took another look around the apartment. The place was messy because Tony couldn't do much housekeeping left-handed. And the kitchen, normally well stocked with fresh food during the weeks Tony had the time to shop, was cluttered with pizza boxes and empty take-out containers.

"Better get this place in order then," Gibbs commented.

If Abby came and saw the mess she would raise a fuss and work herself into a frenzy getting everything just so. And if she found out that Gibbs had been there and had done nothing, she'd throw a fit and lecture him for hours before even showing signs of losing steam.

"Yeah," Tony grunted as he pushed himself out of his recliner.

He swayed on his feet for a bit as he found his balance and reached for the empty bottle, glasses, and mugs that were on the coffee table, but Gibbs waved him off and grabbed them himself, before ordering, "Get yourself cleaned up and change before she gets here."

Tony nodded and replied, "Good idea."

But neither man moved as their gazes settled on the pistol that still sat on the coffee table, reminding them of the series of unfortunate events that brought them to this point.

Finally, Tony gingerly bent down, picked the gun up by the barrel, and carried it with him as he headed to his bedroom.

Gibbs watched Tony walk away and waited until the bedroom door had closed before taking the cargo he clutched in his hands to the kitchen.

* * *

Ducky hung up the phone after his conversation with Jethro. It had been a bit confusing, to say the least, because Jethro, a man who looked after those close to him and sprang into action whenever any one of them was in trouble, seemed indifferent when told of Ziva's current state.

It was most curious, but Ducky was sure Jethro had his reasons. The man rarely ever did anything without thinking things through, and the times he did usually involved redheads and spectacularly disastrous marriages.

Ducky walked back towards the sitting room, and in the echoing chambers of the ground floor he heard a sound he never thought he'd hear: Ziva weeping.

He hurried towards the source of the sound and walked in to see Jordan holding Ziva, and gently rocking the younger woman while whispering in soothing tones.

Ducky and Jordan locked eyes over Ziva's shoulder, and Jordan shook her head at his silent question: No, she didn't know what caused Ziva to start crying in earnest.

He joined them on the sofa-the cushion that favored form over function barely gave under the added weight-and gently laid a hand on Ziva's back to run it up and down in a soothing manner.

"Ziva," he said, hoping to get her to look at him.

And she did, turning slowly in Jordan's arms to face him. Her face, normally so controlled and showing only the emotions she wanted the world to see, was a storm of sadness and confusion while her eyes silently and desperately begged him not to ask her what was wrong.

But he had to ask. He had to know exactly what was going on if he was going to help his friend.

And so he did.

"What's wrong?"

Ziva squeezed her eyes shut took a shuddering breath.

"I-I-I…" she began, her voice shaking as he fought to sound out the words through her crying.

She felt Ducky's hand come rest on her arm as he gently prodded her to continue.

"Yes?"

In Mossad, they dealt with the deepest, darkest aspects of the human psyche, and utilized techniques that most other allied intelligence agencies considered brutal, unrefined, and short-sighted in order to carry out their mandate.

Ziva had spent almost her entire adult life conditioning her mind and body against such interrogation methods, experiencing many of them for herself so that if she were captured, she would not break.

But looking at Ducky now, and seeing how he was acting out of nothing but genuine concern for her well being, Ziva found herself unable to hold anything away from him, and she forced out the sentence that had been caught in her throat since seeing Gibbs earlier that morning: "I tried to kill Tony."

The room fell silent.

Ziva felt Jordan's arms stiffen around her and saw Ducky visibly recoil at her admission.

She shut her eyes again and waited for the rejection she knew that was coming.

Ducky would angrily tell her to get out his house, he and Jordan would walk away, wanting no more to do with her, and she would have nowhere to turn to, because soon, everyone she considered to be a friend would also know of what she had done.

But Jordan did not release her and Ducky's hand came back to rest on her shoulder.

The touches were now tentative, but it did not seem as if either of them were about to leave her, confusing Ziva.

Then Ducky said, "I'll be right back," and stood up to walk out.

There was something in his voice that told Ziva that he would be back, as Jordan pulled her closer and continued to hold her as sobs shook her body once more.

"It's okay. Let it all out. It's okay…"

Ducky stepped just outside the sitting room and into a small alcove that no one except he and his mother knew about. His mind was reeling as he tried to make sense of what Ziva had just told him.

She had tried to kill Tony?

Was Tony alright?

Did Jethro know?

Of course he would know.

That would explain his friend's rather cold tone as he told him of Ziva's current state.

It seemed as if Jethro had washed his hands of Ziva, telling Ducky to use his own judgment in order to do what he thought was best.

And in that case, if Jethro wasn't going to do anything, he would.

Ducky reached into his pocket and dialed one of the many numbers he'd memorized, for instances such as this.

"Hello?" he said when the person he was calling picked up. "It's Donald Mallard…Yes…I'm calling about a favor you owe me."


	4. Chapter 4

Gibbs tackled Tony's kitchen as he did KP when he'd been in the Marines: quickly and efficiently. The garbage can was quickly filled with the take-out boxes that were scattered around while several days worth of glasses, plates, and utensils were emptied, scraped, and tossed into the dishwater.

A series of quick knocks rang through Tony's apartment while Gibbs was replacing the bag in the kitchen garbage can. With the new bag in, Gibbs lifted his foot off the pedal to drop the lid. He grabbed the full bag at his feet to put it someplace out of sight before heading to answer the door.

Gibbs quickly rinsed his hands at the sink and wiped them on the back of his jeans so that he could go and answer the door. He didn't bother trying to hide his smile when more knocks came from the apartment's door.

Abby was the only person in the world that could knock like that-bright and urgent-and she was also currently yelling through the door. Gibbs could hear her muffled voice get louder as he got closer.

"Tony! Are you home? Hello? Tony!"

But Gibbs stopped short when he remembered that he wasn't wearing his jacket and the leather holster containing his M1911 was still on his hip. He quickly walked back to the kitchen and pulled his holster off to put it in a drawer filled with take-out menus. Once the gun was out of sight, he headed back to open the door.

"Tony?" Abby called out again as she continued knocking.

Gibbs opened the door to reveal the near-perpetually perky scientist standing on the other side with one hand poised to knock, her cell phone in the other, and several stuffed canvas shopping bags at her feet. Abby looked up from her phone's screen and her eyes widened in surprise when she saw who it was.

"Gibbs!" she practically yelled as she pulled him into her customary embrace. "I was just about to call you! I didn't know you'd be here! But it works out because now you can help me with these."

Abby bent down and picked up two of her canvas bags and shoved them into Gibbs' arms. He let out a quiet grunt of surprise at the load he was suddenly burdened with. There really was no conceivable way these bags could hold as much as it felt as if they did.

He peered over a bag of tomatoes and waited until Abby had picked up the remaining bags before turning to walk into the apartment. Abby was close behind, chattering as she followed Gibbs.

"It's good that you're here, Gibbs. Because this stuff's really heavy and I had a really hard time bringing it up here, even if I did take the elevator, because I didn't want to make multiple trips, and I couldn't ask Tony to help because his shoulder's hurt and I wouldn't ask him to do anything that would aggravate his injury…"

They were in Tony's kitchen and making a noticeable dent in putting away the groceries before Abby decided to stop and take a breath.

"Where's Tony?" she asked, taking a look around.

She jumped in surprise when Tony spoke up behind her, "Right here, Abs."

He was washed, but not shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes.

"Hey…" Abby turned around and gave Tony a hug, wrapping her arms around his waist rather than his neck and not holding him as tightly as she usually would because of his injuries. "How're you feeling?"

"I'll live," Tony mumbled in reply.

But despite the dour tone in his senior agent's voice, Gibbs noticed that much of the tension that lined Tony's face seemed to ease away as he laid his chin on Abby's shoulder. Gibbs kept on putting away the groceries Abby brought while she continued hugging Tony.

Abby was about to let Tony go when she thought she smelled something.

"Have you been drinking?"

Abby grabbed Tony's face with one hand and squeezed until his mouth popped open. She leaned in to take a whiff of his breath and caught the undeniable scent of alcohol beneath the minty freshness of toothpaste.

"Gibbs!" Abby released Tony and whipped around.

"Did you let Tony drink?" she asked accusatorily. "You know you're not supposed to mix alcohol with medication."

Gibbs just gave Abby a small smile and fished cans of soup out of one bag, so she turned her attention back to Tony.

"And you!" Abby jabbed a finger towards the injured man. "You should be taking better care of yourself."

Tony opened his mouth to try and protest, but was immediately cut off.

"Don't even think about lying." Abby narrowed her eyes and took a dramatic sniff of the air. "I can _smell_ the grease."

She sprang into action, moving around the kitchen like a dynamo and pulling out groceries that Gibbs had just put away and placing them on the counter.

"You know it's a good thing that I came," Abby said while rummaging through a cupboard to look for a mixing bowl. You can't really trust restaurant food anymore. Even at the expensive ones. I once went to this really fancy Chinese place, and do you know what they put in their sweet and sour pork?"

She paused for the briefest of beats before answering her own question: "Fruit cocktail from a can!"

With everything she needed out and on the kitchen counter, Abby turned to where Gibbs and Tony stood, watching her.

"Okay," she said. "I'm going to make something healthy for lunch, so _you,_" she pointed to Tony. "Can go sit down in the living room while _you,_" she pointed at Gibbs. "Can go open a few windows and come back to help me with lunch."

Knowing that there was no use in protesting her orders, Gibbs and Tony went to do as they were told.

Alone in the kitchen now, Abby surveyed the ingredients before her, organized in neat rows and waiting for her to turn them into something spectacular.

Everything was ready.

Except for one thing.

Abby went to the fridge to grab a can of Caf-Pow from the six-pack Tony kept just in case she decided to come by for an impromptu visit.

She popped open the can and took a large swig of the sugar and caffeine-laced drink.

Feeling the familiar buzz starting to kick in, she let out a happy sigh and grabbed a chef's knife from the block.

"Ah. Let's begin."

* * *

The first floor sitting room in Ducky's home was meant more for show than comfort, so Ducky and Jordan brought Ziva upstairs to one of the guestrooms. The normally active and fiercely independent Mossad officer passively allowed them to remove her jacket and boots and leave her lying in a fetal position on top of the covers.

Out in the corridor, Ducky gently closed the door behind them and he and Jordan walked away, quietly talking.

"She looks terrible," Jordan said, casting a glance over her shoulder at the door to the room Ziva was currently in.

Ducky nodded solemnly and replied, "I know."

"What are you going to do? She said she tried to kill somebody."

"Tony's alright," Ducky said, although it was more to assure himself than to make a point. "And this was not something Ziva decided on her own."

He was sure of it.

Ziva had most likely been acting under orders from Mossad. But if that were the case, and Mossad found out that Ziva had not carried out her task as ordered, they would most likely consider her to have gone rogue and would come after her.

"But what are you going to do?" Jordan asked again. "I know she's a friend…but…but attempted murder's a crime."

"Yes, I know. But the problem is that by not going through with it she got herself in more trouble than she would have been if she'd had."

Jordan's brow furrowed in confusion. "What does that mean?"

Ducky let out a breath. He'd thought that becoming a medical examiner would make his life much more straightforward. But he found himself involved in almost as much intrigue now as he'd been as a young man, and it was beginning to spill over into his personal life.

"I've called in a favor from someone I know in the State Department. He said that he can help."

"How?"

"He's sending somebody over to get things started…" Ducky didn't want to reveal too much, so he let his voice trail off.

Jordan nodded knowingly.

"And you really can't tell me anything more." It was a statement, not a question, said in an entirely neutral tone that reminded Ducky of what his mother used to say to him back when he was off gallivanting around the third world.

Ducky shook his head and gave Jordan his automatic reply, "No I can't."

They lapsed into silence and went downstairs to clean up Ziva's untouched toast and tea, and to wait for the person Ducky said was coming.

About an hour later, they heard the crunch of tires on gravel and they stepped outside to see two men, not one, step out of a black SUV.

The men were dressed in dark suits and both walked deliberately with very little wasted motion. One looked to be in his early thirties while the other was about twenty years older and had close cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

"Dr. Donald Mallard?" the elder of the men called out as they walked up the steps to the house's front door.

"Yes," Ducky replied.

"Under-Secretary Lewis said you'd be expecting us, sir."

"Of course."

Jordan shot a look at the back of Ducky's head.

_Under-Secretary_?

Just how well connected was he?

While Jordan stepped back into the house to make way for their new visitors, Ducky stepped to the side and opened the door wider. "Come in, please."

"Would you gentlemen like anything to drink?" Ducky asked politely as the four of them stood somewhat awkwardly in the house's ornate entryway.

"No, thank you, Doctor," the elder man said, shaking his head. "We're fine."

The younger man spoke up, "We were told to escort a Ziva David to the State Department."

The way the proper pronunciation of Ziva's name easily rolled off the man's tongue told Ducky that he'd spent some time in Israel, most likely while stationed at the American embassy in Tel Aviv.

"Yes, she's upstairs," Ducky said, and moved to go fetch her.

But Jordan quickly said, "I'll go get her," and stopped Ducky in his tracks.

She left the men standing there and headed upstairs, but she could hear them talking as she walked away.

"Is it just the two of you?"

"We were the ones on call this weekend, Doctor. A full detail is being assembled as we speak."

She'd worked with law enforcement for years, and also read enough thrillers and seen enough movies to have an idea of what they were talking about. It was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying to think about what she found herself caught up in.

But it also brought up a very important question: just how much trouble was Ziva in for Ducky to call in a favor from an Under-Secretary of State?

Jordan arrived at the door to the room where they'd left Ziva and knocked quietly before entering. It looked as if Ziva hadn't moved once. She was still in the same position and staring at a far-off place beyond the wall.

"Ziva?" Jordan said, gaining Ziva's attention. The younger woman's eyes were still glistening with tears. "Could you come downstairs, please?"

"Why?" Ziva asked, her voice sounding croaky.

"Some people are here to see you."

Ziva automatically pushed herself up, her body tensed and ready to spring into action. Had they found her?

If so, she would have to get away from here. She was resigned to her fate, but she would not allow Ducky and Jordan be exposed to violence in their own home.

"It's okay," Jordan reassured her. "Donald called them."

Ziva relaxed somewhat at that. She bent down to put on her boots and stood up to walk downstairs. Jordan followed her, having stepped into the guestroom to grab Ziva's jacket first.

The two women walked down the stairs to where the three men stood silently, having finished their conversation.

Ducky had put on his tweed jacket and his old fedora was waiting on one of the many half-tables that were placed snugly against the house's walls.

When he saw Ziva approaching, he said, gesturing to the men with him, "Ziva…These gentlemen are from the State Department."

Ziva's senses once again went into high gear when she saw the two men standing in the ornate entryway.

Ducky sensed her tension and tried to assure her. "It's alright. A friend sent them. They're here to help."

But, unlike Jordan's earlier reassurance, this did little to help her. The men did not look like bureaucrats or diplomats. Instead, they were tall, well built, and, at their hips, she could see the subtle bulges of guns beneath their suit jackets. They reached into their jacket pockets to pull out credential cases.

"I'm Special Agent Callahan," the elder of the two said. "And this is Special Agent O'Hara."

"We're with the Diplomatic Security Service, Miss David," Callahan continued as he flashed his badge. "We've been ordered to escort you to the State Department for processing."

Process?

Of course.

As an official representative for the state of Israel, she was in the United States on a diplomatic passport. They could not prosecute her for any crimes, but they could force her to leave the country and return to Israel.

Where Mossad could get to her much more easily than they could here.

Ducky was a friend of unquestionable loyalty, but he was also a man of unwavering morals-all of her friends in this country were like that-who believed in justice and doing the right thing. Of course this was what he would do.

Ziva turned to Ducky to tell him that she understood his decision, but he spoke up first.

"Don't worry, Ziva. Nothing bad is going to happen. I will be with you every step of the way."

Now she was confused.

The feeling that she was just a single playing piece being moved around by unseen hands was reinforced.

What was going on?

"It will take some time to process you," the man who identified himself as Callahan said. "You'll need clothes and toiletries for a few days."

"I'll go pick some things up at your apartment and bring them to you," Jordan volunteered. She was still holding Ziva's jacket so she fished Ziva's keys out of one of the pockets and handed the jacket to Ducky.

"That's a good idea," Ducky said, nodding. He gave Jordan Ziva's address and helped Ziva slip into her jacket.

Ducky placed his fedora on his head and guided Ziva outside with an almost grandfatherly arm around her shoulders, following Special Agent O'Hara to the SUV.

Callahan hung back to briefly talk with Jordan.

"Just ask for me when you arrive at the State Department, Ma'am," he said.

He then pulled a business card out and scribbled a number onto the back. "And if you have any trouble getting through, just give me a call. There's my cell number just in case I'm not at my desk."

* * *

Ziva lived in an older part of the city, with narrow streets, bad parking, and old houses that had been converted into apartment buildings. Jordan craned her neck as she drove down the proper street so that she could read the numbers on the buildings. There was no space to park her car in front of Ziva's building, so Jordan had to drive for another block and a half before she could pull over.

After finding a space, Jordan parked her car and walked back to Ziva's apartment building and let herself in through the front door using Ziva's keys. There was no elevator, so Jordan walked up the stairs, passing by a mother with two young children heading out for some afternoon fun, and through halls to the proper door.

It took a couple of tries before she got the right key from the ring and opened the door. She'd expected the apartment to be empty, but it wasn't. There was already a man who looked to be of Middle Eastern descent and in his early forties already inside, standing by the sofa.

"Oh, hello," Jordan said innocently. "I didn't know that Ziva lived with-"

But she cut herself off when she saw that the man was wearing latex gloves on his hands and was taking something out of a picture frame. She immediately became suspicious and asked, "What are you doing?"

One of Jordan's hands reached for the doorknob while the other went into her pocket to take out her cell phone.

But her hands barely made contact with those objects, because the man was across the apartment in the blink of an eye, grabbing her and slamming her against the fall.

Stunned, Jordan could do nothing but slide to the floor, writhe around, and gasp for air.

Considering her to be no more of a threat, the man left her there and ran off to do something elsewhere in the apartment.

Fighting to remain calm and trying to breathe even though her ribs flashed with pain with every single movement, Jordan pushed herself up into a sitting position with suddenly weak arms. She reached up, weakly grasped the knob, and turned. The door opened just a crack, but that was enough.

She wedged her fingers into the crack and swung it open just enough so that she could crawl through and collapse half inside and half outside. She rolled over onto her back to see the concerned face of a woman about her age. The woman was Ziva's neighbor and had stepped outside to investigate the source of the sudden banging from next door.

"Oh my god. Are you alright?" the woman asked.

Jordan tried to tell her that there was someone in the apartment, but she couldn't control her breathing enough to say the words.

It turned out she didn't need to say anything. The apartment door opened all the way and the man who'd been inside took one look at the situation before roughly shoving the neighbor out of the way and running down the stairs.

The neighbor yelled after him. "Hey! Stop!"

More people came out of their apartments,

"What's going on?"

"Some guy knocked her down and ran off."

"Does he live here?"

"No, I don't think so."

"I'll go call the police."

"Do you think she needs an ambulance?"

Jordan's sight was filled with unfamiliar faces looking down at her. With the help of someone, she managed to sit up, only to get a good view of flickering flames and smoke coming from Ziva's sofa.

"Fire," Jordan tried to say. But with her heaving breaths, it came out more like a gasp and could barely be heard.

"What?" a man's voice asked. "Did you say something?"

Jordan forced herself to control her breathing and tried to say her warning again, "Fire," this time pointing so that people would see what she was looking at.

"Oh my god! Somebody call 911! There's a fire!"

Hands grabbed Jordan and pulled her out of the way of the door while a couple of men quickly rushed into Ziva's apartment.

"Grab a fire extinguisher!"

Blinking emergency lights preceded the piercing squawk of the fire alarm and the building's halls were filled with the pounding of feet and the grumbling of people who didn't know what was going on as everyone evacuated.

A couple of people helped Jordan to her feet and were half-carrying her out when, suddenly, there was a deafening boom and the entire building shook.

* * *

**Gah! The middle and the end took forever to write!**

**I'd like to post more often, but it seems as if my muse and work schedule will only let me post once a week.**

**Not making any promises, though.**

**So, tell me. What did you all think???**

**-Jaime**


	5. Chapter 5

**AH! Sorry about being so bad in updating.**

**To make up for it, I've made this chapter longer than all my previous ones and brought in more characters.**

**Thank you to all those who've been reviewing this story and a BIG HELLO to all my new readers!**

* * *

Ducky and Ziva were issued with visitor badges upon arriving at the Harry S Truman Building before being hustled along by Agents Callahan and O'Hara to a rather unremarkable looking conference room. One of the room's walls was made of glass and they could look out into a maze of empty cubicles.

Callahan told Ducky and Ziva to make themselves comfortable before closing the door so that he and O'Hara could take positions outside.

Ziva sat down in one of the chairs while Ducky put his hat on the conference table before heading to the electric kettle he saw at one side of the room. It was now nearing noon and Ziva had not had anything to eat or drink in the hours since Ducky first saw her on the streets, and he was sure that she had not been eating regularly in the days since Tony killed Rivkin.

Soon there were two steaming mugs of tea, one for each of them, sitting on the table. Ziva stared at hers for a long moment until finally, under Ducky's watchful gaze, she lifted the mug to her lips and took a small sip. Ducky's lips curled into a small smile and he began to drink from his own mug.

They had been waiting for a few minutes before a soft knock sounded from the door and a small-ish woman probably around Gibbs' age, and carrying a sheaf of papers and a handful of pens, stepped inside. Ducky automatically stood when she came in.

"Hello," the woman said with a rather strong Tennessee twang. "I'm Francine Simmons. I'm with the Foreign Service and I'll be handling the initial interview."

"Hello, Ms. Simmons. I'm Donald Mallard and this is Ziva David," Ducky gestured towards his companion as she followed his example and stood.

"Hello. Hello," Simmons said as handshakes were exchanged. "And it's Mrs. Simmons."

Ducky nodded in understanding and politely said, "I do hope we're not interrupting your weekend with this, Mrs. Simmons."

Simmons shook her head and indicated for Ducky and Ziva to retake their seats. "Not at all, Dr. Mallard. Not at all. Now if we could all just take a seat, we can get started."

Simmons sat down across from Ducky and Ziva and spread her papers and pens in front of her. She picked one of the pens and clicked it experimentally before setting it down to look at the two visitors.

Dr. Mallard was sitting with his elbows on the conference table, hands clasped together, while intently looking back at Simmons. His companion, and apparent star of the moment, however, was staring intently at the mug of tea she was rotating in her hands, but Simmons was pretty sure she was taking everything in, intentionally or not.

"I spoke with Under-Secretary Lewis before coming in so I am aware of the basics of the situation," Simmons continued. "This interview will help me and the State Department to better understand what is going on as well as help move the review process along."

She paused for a moment and, again, fiddled with the papers and pens in front of her before looking straight at Ziva and saying, "Now. Miss David. I understand that you are a Mossad officer."

Simmons watched as Ziva's eyes shot up and then back down before traveling back down to her mug and slowly back up again. The corners of the young woman's lips tightened and relaxed, just slightly, as she answered.

"Yes. That is correct."

Simmons nodded once and said, "I am sure that there are things that you may not wish to divulge, but let me just say that being as candid as possible, about the current situation at least, with me and anyone else who will be speaking to you will be extremely helpful."

She leaned forward to make sure that Ziva was looking at her and nothing else. "Do you understand?"

Ziva noticed that although Simmons' voice remained soft and warm as the woman spoke, her gray eyes were intense and calculating, and that there was a slight deepening of the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes as they narrowed so subtly that the action went almost unnoticed.

All Ziva could do under that gaze was nod and say, "Yes."

"Good," Simmons replied. She plucked the first form from the top of her stack and picked on of the pens before her at random in order to begin.

"We'll start off with some particulars. Simple stuff-"

The buzzing of a cell phone interrupted Simmons.

Ducky immediately began digging into his pockets with an embarrassed smile on his face.

"My apologies. I forgot to turn it off."

He pulled the offending device out and took a look at the number that popped up on the tiny LCD screen. It was one he saw regularly and quite often required him to drop everything in order to answer it. This was going to be one of those moments.

"Oh, dear…I must take this. Excuse me."

Ducky stood up and, taking his hat with him as he did, walked out of the conference room. Agent Callahan briefly glanced at him as he walked into the cubicle maze to answer his phone.

"This is Dr. Mallard."

He listened to the voice on the other end explain what was going on.

"What?" he practically yelled when he heard what happened.

Callahan and O'Hara looked over in surprise at his sudden outburst.

"Where? Is she alright?"

The voice spoke some more, giving him more information about the situation at hand.

"How many-? I'll be there as soon as I can."

Ducky ended the call with a sad and weary sigh. He walked over to where the two Diplomatic Security Service agents were standing guard and said to Agent Callahan, "I'm sorry, but I must go."

Callahan nodded and replied, "Of course, Doctor."

Ducky glanced through the glass wall to see Ziva being grilled by Simmons. His friend had a resigned look on her face as she spoke to the other woman. There really was no time to explain what was going on to anybody, so he made the decision to leave without telling Ziva. He was sure she would be safe at the State Department. Callahan had said that a full security detail would be provided.

So with another sigh and a nod to the two agents, Ducky turned and began to make his way out of the building. As he did so, he pulled out his cell phone once again and began dialing.

He'd come to the Harry S Truman Building in a State Department SUV so he would have to arrange for a pick-up from Jimmy.

* * *

Neither Tony nor Gibbs had felt like eating, but the delicious smells of Abby's cooking and her good cheer soon had them sitting around the table in the dining area of Tony's living room, eating food that Abby had thoughtfully cut into bite-sized pieces beforehand so that Tony would only need to use a fork.

Abby did most of the talking over their meal, somehow managing to make her food disappear without ever talking with her mouth full. Tony would respond as required while Gibbs mostly just chewed in silence while listening to the conversation flow along.

Eventually Abby's heaping Louisiana-sized portions (plus liberal second servings) were cleared from the plates, and feeling much heavier, the two men slowly got up to clear the table while Abby bounced along, carrying her plate back to the kitchen while seemingly unaffected by the huge amount she'd just eaten.

They were all in the kitchen, shuffling around and trying to get the dishwasher loaded when Gibbs' phone began to ring. Abby took his plate from him so that he could pull the phone out of his pocket.

"Yeah. Gibbs."

Gibbs listened for a few seconds as the voice on the other end and replied with a terse, "Be right there," before he snapped his phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

"New case?" Tony asked from where he stood next to the sink.

Gibbs didn't need to answer. Tony just nodded and said, "Thanks for coming by. I'll just go grab what's left on the table."

Without another word, the younger man turned and headed out of the kitchen.

"But you're not on call this weekend," Abby insisted, gaining Gibbs' attention.

"I know."

Abby looked back and forth between Gibbs and the kitchen entrance. She didn't want to leave Tony alone. He was depressed and, for once, wasn't making the effort to hide it from her. But she also had a job to do, even if her friend was going through a personal crisis, and that made her feel extremely conflicted.

So Abby did what she usually did in such situations: she asked Gibbs what to do.

"Should I get going too?"

Gibbs shook his head and pulled her into a one-armed hug. He said, quietly so that only she could hear, "Keep him busy."

Abby nodded and replied, just as quietly, "'Kay, Gibbs."

Gibbs kissed Abby softly on the forehead, silently telling her he was putting his faith in her. He let her go and gave her a smile.

Abby smiled back and squared her shoulders before spinning on her heel to stalk out to where Tony was.

Gibbs could hear the two of them talking from the dining area.

"Tony, put that bowl down and come here. I'm going to wash your hair for you."

"I already had a shower."

"I know. I can see the suds behind your ears. Come on, I'm going to do it properly."

"Abby…I'm not really…"

"I'll give you that scalp massage you really like."

There was a pause and then the clink of crockery being placed on a glass-topped dining table.

"Fine."

Once he was sure that Abby would not be stepping back into the kitchen, Gibbs opened the drawer where he'd hidden his M1911 and pulled it out from a messy pile of takeout menus. He secured the holster to his hip and made sure that it was covered by his jacket.

That done, he quietly exited Tony's apartment, leaving Abby to take care of his injured agent.

Heading towards the elevator, Gibbs once again pulled out his phone and flipped it open to dial a familiar number. It took a few rings longer than usual for the other person to answer.

"McGee, get to the Navy Yard and gas up the truck. I'll be there in thirty minutes."

* * *

More than an hour later, the MCRT truck was let through a police cordon that blocked off the block Ziva lived on and came to a stop next to a pair of Washington DC Metropolitan Police Department cruisers.

There were emergency vehicles parked all along the street and the area was swarming with first responders. Firefighters were packing up their hoses and ladders, having done their jobs, and paramedics were treating injuries. Meanwhile, police officers were waving out the first of the departing fire engines.

McGee and Gibbs hopped out of the truck, and while Gibbs went off to find the person in charge of the scene, the junior field agent went around back and began pulling out all the necessary packs and cases. He draped as many straps as he could over his shoulders and grabbed what was left in his hands.

He groaned a little at the weight digging into his fingers and shoulders. Everything he was carrying was usually divided between himself, Tony, and Ziva. But Tony was at home, injured, and Ziva was, in Gibbs' own words, "unreachable."

McGee had noted that was an unusually sharp edge in his supervisor's voice when saying that, so he'd decided not to press any further.

He used a knee to close the back door to the truck and made his way to where Gibbs was talking to a MPD District Commander.

"…about a dozen or so on the street were injured by flying glass and debris," the Commander was saying when McGee walked up. "Some of them were pretty serious and were taken to the nearest hospital."

The Commander paused to cast a critical eye at McGee before looking back at Gibbs and saying, "ME's already inside and the arson inspector's on his way. I'll leave you to it, then," although his tone made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to.

With one last look at the two agents, the Commander walked off without another word.

Gibbs wasted no time in stalking up the front stairs of the building, but McGee hung back, his feet seemingly stuck in place.

They said that Ziva wasn't among the dead or the injured.

She was supposedly nowhere near her home when this happened, but it didn't stop McGee from being afraid of going into her apartment.

He remembered approaching Tony's car when they'd thought he'd been blown up, and the feeling of dread that clutched at him back then.

What if they were wrong about Ziva?

"McGee!" Gibbs snap brought him back to the present. "You comin'?"

McGee shook his head quickly to clear it out and saw where Gibbs was impatiently waiting for him at the building's entrance.

"Coming, Boss!" he answered.

And with deep breath, he firmed up his grip on the cases in his hands and followed Gibbs inside. The walk up the stairs to Ziva's floor was tiring, but McGee managed to keep his huffing and puffing to a minimum.

It was obvious which apartment they were looking for. The door was open, off its hinges, actually, and there were scorch marks on the hallway carpet. Gibbs walked straight in, ducking underneath the yellow tape strung across the doorframe with McGee not far behind.

McGee was curious as he followed Gibbs. How could an ME already be inside, waiting for them, when he didn't see Ducky's truck or any vehicle belonging to the City Coroner's office among the vehicles outside?

The answer stood in the middle of the charred living room in the form of Jordan Hampton, wearing a MPD raid jacket over her street clothes and with a filter mask hanging off her neck, shaking Gibbs' hand.

"Dr. Hampton," McGee said, his tone one of surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Jordan looked over at McGee and recognition quickly dawned on her face.

"I'm a ME, Tim," she said with a small smile. "Why wouldn't I be here?"

Deciding that it would be a good idea to leave it at that, McGee began setting down his burden next to the apartment door. He'd only been carrying it for a few minutes but it was really starting to wear him down. Now unencumbered, he rolled his shoulders experimentally to loosen them up before rummaging around the various cases to find his camera.

Meanwhile, Jordan was talking to Gibbs as they stood over two badly burned bodies.

"Two victims were killed in the explosion," Jordan said, pointing them out somewhat unnecessarily. "Both male. Robert Woods and Lyle Thomas, although you're going to need dental records to make the formal ID."

Indeed, there were few patches of skin and clothing on the bodies that were relatively untouched by the explosion, subsequent fire, and efforts to put the flames out. But none of them were bits that could actually help with identification. Hopefully, their teeth would be intact enough.

"Boss?" McGee's voice drew Jordan's attention. He held up a camera he had dangling around his neck. "I'm going to start taking photos."

But Gibbs barely even glanced at his most junior agent. "Measure and sketch the scene first," he simply said.

McGee hesitated for a moment-that was usually Tony's job-before remembering that he was the only one there. "Right, Boss."

He turned back to the cases by the door, quietly muttering, "Now where did Tony keep all that stuff?"

With McGee otherwise engaged, Gibbs resumed talking to Jordan. He kept his voice low so that their conversation could be as private as possible.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Jordan said, although her hand unconsciously came up to rub at the bruise forming on her neck.

Gibbs tilted his head so he could better look at Jordan's eyes. "Did you get a look at him?"

"Yeah," Jordan nodded as she continued to rub at her neck. "Yeah…Uhm…"

She squeezed her eyes shut and recalled the man who'd thrown her against a wall and seemed to be perfectly willing to leave her to die in a fiery explosion. She began to list his major attributes one by one. "Middle Eastern…a little over six feet…and he looked to be around his mid-forties."

Jordan opened her eyes again and blinked hard several times.

Gibbs waited a few seconds before speaking again. "Do you think you can work with a sketch artist?"

"Sure…I think so."

A gruff voice that neither had ever heard before interrupted them.

"Hey, you the Navy cops?"

This time, Gibbs did look over, seeing a man in a firefighter's uniform standing at the doorway. He straightened his back so that he was at his full height.

"Yeah. And you are?"

The firefighter stepped inside and walked up to Jordan and Gibbs.

"Lieutenant Michael Edwards, Arson Inspector."

"Gibbs, NCIS. This is Dr. Hampton, city ME."

Handshakes were exchanged and Edwards took a look around the apartment. Almost everything he could see, including the bodies at his feet, was charred black, and there was the overwhelming smell of damp soot that lingered in the air from the water used to put out the fire.

Edwards eyes settled back on Gibbs, and the firefighter asked, "How far have you gotten?"

"Just got here ourselves," Gibbs replied.

"Well, I'm going to start poking around. I'll let you know if I find anything you'll find interesting."

Gibbs didn't like people he didn't know poking around his crime scenes, but Edwards was (hopefully) an expert in a field that Gibbs knew very little about and they were two men short. They needed whatever assistance they could get, even if Gibbs' gut was screaming out possible avenues the investigation could take.

Edwards circled around Ziva's living room, his eyes taking in the way the flames had consumed the apartment

"Looks like there was a single source of ignition," he said to no one in particular. "Probably the couch or something nearby."

Gibbs glanced over at Jordan. Her expression remained neutral even as a hand unconsciously came up to hook itself on the back of her neck.

Edwards pulled a small digital camera out of his pocket and stiffly bent down to take photos of the back of Ziva's burnt couch and the section of flooring behind it. They were in relatively pristine condition compared to the rest of the apartment.

"But the burn pattern suggests that the primary fuel source was in a different location," he said. He straightened up and turned to Gibbs to ask, "It was an explosion, right?"

"Yeah," Gibbs replied in his usually terse way.

"Hmmm…"

Edwards' eyes traveled across the floor as he followed a trail that only he could see.

"I don't see a fire extinguisher anywhere," McGee observed from where he'd been taking down measurements.

Edwards looked over at McGee and said, "Yeah. You see it often with bad fires. There's always at least one person who runs _in_ and tries to play hero."

McGee's face scrunched up in confusion. Despite the fact that he'd been in many life-threatening situations, he'd rarely been caught up in them by choice. He couldn't exactly comprehend the mentality behind such actions. "Why would anyone do something like that? Why take the risk and run in without thinking?"

"It is a uniquely American version of the Hero Complex, Timothy."

The familiar Scottish brogue gained everyone's attention.

Dr. Donald Mallard, ME, stood in the doorway dressed in his NCIS coveralls with Jimmy Palmer and a gurney visible over his shoulder.

"An offshoot of the American Dream, one could say," Ducky continued as he and Jimmy wheeled the gurney into the apartment. "The belief that someone can, with a single action, truly make a difference and, as a result, gain recognition and be regarded as a hero. It is ingrained into the American psyche and often has fatal results because it leads to people rushing into danger with no regard to their own safety. In fact there is an eight-to-one ratio in firefighter deaths between the United States and other countries with similar training standards."

McGee looked towards Lieutenant Edwards and was mildly surprised to see that the firefighter wasn't taking umbrage at what Ducky was saying. In fact, the man seemed to agree.

Edwards noticed McGee looking at him and, recognizing the young man's expression, launched into an explanation: "There was a warehouse fire about seven years ago. My company rushed in without taking the time to make sure that the place was stable. The heat had buckled several of the load-bearing pillars inside and a section of the roof collapsed on top us. Three guys were crushed by a falling I-beam, and my hip was smashed. Had an implant put in so I could walk again," he gestured towards the waistband of his trousers to illustrate where. "I still need a cane sometimes."

Gibbs nodded silently, having noticed the firefighter's limited range of motion when Edwards bent down to take photos.

Ducky, meanwhile, had moved towards Jordan and had ushered her away from the group of men to talk to her quietly with some privacy.

"Jethro," Ducky said. "I'm going to take Jordan outside for a moment, if that's alright with you."

But there was no question that Ducky would be taking Jordan outside even if Gibbs didn't approve.

"I'm sure Jimmy will be more than capable of handling the bodies," Ducky continued.

"Sure thing, Duck," Gibbs quickly agreed.

Jimmy, although surprised at being suddenly entrusted to handle bodies on his own, stepped aside to let Ducky and Jordan through, before pulling the gurney further inside and grabbing one of the body bags they'd brought.

He crouched down and spread the bag out next to one of the bodies and unzipped it. He looked up and around the apartment before settling on where McGee was scribbling something on a clipboard, and called out, "McGee. Can I get a hand here?"

McGee looked over and said, "Yeah, sure."

He scribbled a few more things down before putting the clipboard by the stack of cases at the door and headed over to help Jimmy.

"McGee!" Gibbs barked.

The young agent snapped straight, worried that he'd done something wrong by going to help the assistant coroner. "Yes, Boss."

But, it turned out, that he wasn't in trouble.

"After you're done helping Palmer, stay downstairs and start taking witness statements."

"Got it, Boss," McGee replied, hiding his relief. He went back to helping Jimmy while Gibbs wandered off to look for Edwards, who had gone off to do his own thing while everyone was talking.

McGee crouched down by the first body's feet while Jimmy finished spreading out the unzipped body bag.

"First responders outside are saying that she took charge and was treating the injured outside when they got here," Jimmy said as he moved to crouch by the body's head and shoulders.

McGee looked over quizzically. "Dr. Hampton?"

Jimmy nodded and said, "Yeah."

"You mean she was here? When…when…" suddenly unable to find the words he was looking for, McGee dramatically gestured with his hands and made a "_Phwoosh!_" sound with his mouth.

"Yeah," Jimmy nodded. "Apparently."

"But why would she be here?"

"I don't know," Jimmy shrugged and slipped his latex gloved hands beneath the body's shoulders. McGee did the same with the legs. "On three, okay? One. Two. Three."

The two men gently lifted the burnt body off the floor and over onto the body bag. In doing so, they exposed a picture frame that had been shielded by the dead man's body. While Jimmy tended to the body, McGee leaned over to take a closer look.

Inside the smashed glass was a photograph of three young children happily posing for the camera. There was no way McGee could not know the little girl in the middle.

"Hey…" McGee said in surprise.

He snapped a photo to document his find.

"What is it?" Jimmy looked over at McGee as he zipped the body bag up.

"A photograph," McGee answered.

He carefully picked the frame up to get a better look. Some pieces of glass fell off and onto the floor.

"Look," McGee pointed to the girl in the middle. "It's Ziva when she was a kid. And this must be Tali, her sister."

Jimmy leaned in to take a closer look. "I didn't know Ziva has a sister."

"Had," McGee corrected. "She was killed by a suicide bomber in Tel Aviv."

"Oh," Jimmy said soberly. "And who's the boy?"

"I don't know."

McGee squinted a bit. The boy was older than the girls in the photo and looked a bit familiar, but he couldn't exactly figure out how he'd know who it was. He'd never met any of Ziva's family or friends before.

"But this is evidence."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. He slipped the picture frame inside, sealed the bag, and used a marker he pulled from another pocket to label it. He then carried it over to pile of equipment and tucked the evidence bag into one of the cases.

Jimmy looked over from where he was still crouched over the now filled body bag. "You done?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, now help me get the bag onto the gurney."

McGee walked over.

"Come on," Jimmy urged. "We've got to take him downstairs and come back up with the other gurney so we can move the other body."

* * *

Lieutenant Edwards was in the apartment's small kitchen, having followed the burn pattern in the apartment. He wasn't particularly surprised to be in this very spot. He'd seen his fair share of explosions in residential buildings, and most of them inevitably led to the kitchen.

In this particular kitchen, the stove had been blown across the space and into the opposite wall, leaving a huge hole in the plaster before collapsing into a heap of twisted metal on the floor. And in the space between the counters where the stove used to be, Edwards saw two very unusual things.

Things that the Navy cops in the other room would want to see.

Edwards turned around to fetch them, only to come face to face with Gibbs, who'd come up behind him while barely making any noise.

"Jeez, Gibbs!" Edwards gasped as one hand grasped at his chest. Along with his hip, his heart wasn't what it used to be, either. "I was just about to call you. You should see this."

"What is it?" Gibbs said calmly, as if he hadn't just nearly given the man before him a heart attack.

Edwards let out a softly indignant "harrumph" before turning back and pointed at the space the stove used to occupy.

"First of all, I found this laptop."

Indeed, there was a small laptop sitting on the floor, seemingly almost intact. It had somehow avoided being caught in brunt of the explosion or the fire that followed. There probably was damage from the water that the firefighters had sprayed throughout the apartment, but Gibbs was sure that Abby and McGee were more than capable of fishing out any information that was on the computer's hard drive.

Gibbs pulled a small digital camera out of his pocket and snapped a series of photos of the computer before reaching into his pocket for an evidence bag to put it in.

As he was doing so, Edwards pointed out the second thing he'd found.

"And take a look at this. See the gas line behind it? It's been cut."

Gibbs' eyes just narrowed dangerously at that piece of news.

* * *

**Got that little tidbit about firefighter deaths from **_**Lie to Me.**_


	6. Chapter 6

**I really need to be better about maintaining this story. No excuses. I'm just really prone to procrastination. Sorry.**

* * *

The sun was beginning to set by the time the MCRT truck pulled into the NCIS garage. McGee hopped out of passenger seat and jogged around to the back for the crates full of evidence while Gibbs moved a little more slowly.

"I'll take these over to Abby," McGee said as he grabbed the first crate.

"No."

Gibbs' answer surprised McGee. The young agent slowly set down the crate he'd been holding and waited for further instructions.

"Abby's not here yet," Gibbs said. "Get to work on the composite sketch of the guy that attacked Jordan. Find him"

"Alright…" McGee replied, confused. Abby wasn't at work yet? And how did Gibbs know that? He'd been working with the man for nearly seven years and still couldn't figure out Gibbs' near-psychic abilities.

But this wasn't the time or place to start asking questions. Even now, with his hesitation, McGee was risking a slap upside the head.

"I'll start checking security and traffic cams in the vicinity of Ziva's building and compare the people I see to the sketch."

Gibbs just said, "I'll be in Autopsy," and headed for the elevator.

McGee took that as a sign for him to follow and get to his desk ASAP.

* * *

Ducky was taking a look at some x-rays, while Jimmy was sorting some jars onto a trolley in between the examination tables, when Gibbs strode through the door.

"Ah, Jethro," Ducky greeted his old friend. "I've been waiting for you. A bit longer than usual, but then you are a bit short on people, aren't you?"

Gibbs, as usual, ignored Ducky's attempts at distracting him from the task at hand and got straight to the point.

"What've you got for me, Duck?"

The medical examiner sighed silently and turned away from the x-rays and to the two bodies lying on his exam tables. Jimmy moved out of the way and found something else to do so that Ducky and Gibbs could move about freely.

"Messrs. Woods and Thomas," Ducky said, walking between the two charred bodies. "Their bodies show all usual signs of being in an explosion. They were peppered with wood, glass, plastic, and other assorted pieces of household debris."

Ducky waved a hand over the large number of jars on the trolley Jimmy had been working on. They each contained the various objects Ducky had pulled from the bodies.

"As you can see, their faces were badly burned. I needed to use dental records in order to identify them."

He turned to the body on his left-it had several visible dents in its skull-and began to describe how that person had died. "Mr. Woods, here, died from a combination of major blunt force trauma to his head and concussion damage to his internal organs while Mr. Thomas," Ducky did an about-face towards the other body. "Suffocated."

He looked towards Gibbs to see if that got a reaction out of his friend.

It didn't, so Ducky went on to explain how the man had suffocated: "His throat and lungs were seared shut by the heat. Not a particularly pleasant way to go, I would imagine."

Autopsy lapsed into silence. Gibbs and Ducky stared at each other while Jimmy typed away at the computer in the corner, conscious of the tension that seemed to be brewing between the two men and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

"I don't know how much more I can tell you, Jethro," Ducky finally said. "The mystery here isn't who, where, when, with what, and how, but why?"

The ME cast a sidelong glance at the back of his assistant's head and added, quietly, "And I'm certain we both have a strong hunch about the why."

Gibbs didn't answer immediately, but finally asked, "How's Jordan doing?"

Ducky resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the obtuse way his friend changed the subject, but conceded to the fact that this wasn't exactly the place to be discussing such matters.

"She's in the conference room, still shaken up," he replied. "Although the full weight of what's been occurring hasn't hit her just yet."

Any sort of conversation that could have occurred was interrupted by Abby's voice calling out as the doors to Autopsy swung open and in came Tony, taking long strides.

"Tony! Slow down!" the forensic scientist pleaded as she followed her friend, only to run into his back and fall onto her backside when Tony came to an abrupt stop.

Tony didn't even register Abby's running into his back as he stared at the bodies on the exam table with wide eyes.

"Oh God…" He took a hesitant step forward while pointing with his good arm. "Is that…?"

Ducky was quick to reassure Tony, pushing past Gibbs to get to the younger agent.

"No, it isn't Anthony," Ducky reached Tony and placed a gentle hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Ziva wasn't anywhere near her apartment when this occurred."

"You're sure?" Tony asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Yes," Ducky nodded gravely.

Tony's eyes didn't stray from the exam tables. "How can you be sure?"

"For one thing," Ducky replied. "They're both men."

Gibbs, meanwhile, had walked over to where Abby was sprawled on the floor. He bent down and offered her his hand.

"Sorry, Gibbs," Abby said as Gibbs hauled her to her feet. "He was going to come here no matter what."

"I know," Gibbs reassured her as he helped Abby straighten her clothing.

Abby was grateful for the fact that she'd decided to wear jeans instead of a skirt this morning because her legs had splayed out in a rather unladylike fashion when she fell. From where Jimmy was standing, he would have probably gotten an eyeful.

Abby looked over at the bodies herself and, in an uncharacteristically tiny voice, asked Gibbs, "Ziva's not here. Right?"

Gibbs shook his head. "She's not."

"What's going on?"

Gibbs patted Abby down one last time and said, "Still figuring that out myself, Abs."

He left Abby's side and took a few steps to Tony's side.

"Go home," Gibbs said quietly.

Tony turned his head to look at his supervisor and hissed, "Like hell I am, Gibbs."

"You have surgery tomorrow," Gibbs replied with an even voice.

But Tony wasn't swayed. "I'll reschedule," he retorted.

"No you're not," Gibbs shot back.

Ducky decided to intervene. These were two very strong personalities that were about to go head-to-head and it was obvious that Tony wasn't in the mood to play the part of the acquiescent fool.

"Tony," the medical examiner interjected just as the man was taking a breath to say something (probably regrettable) back. He kept his voice low and steady so as not to escalate the situation any further. "Jethro is right. You should go home in preparation for your operation tomorrow morning."

Tony shot Ducky a glare and his gaze shot between the ME and Gibbs before growling out, "Fine."

He spun on his heel, wobbling somewhat because his arm was in a sling, and sidestepped around Abby to head to the elevator.

Ducky turned to Jimmy and said, "There's nothing more you need to do here. Why don't you take Tony home and make sure he doesn't eat anything until he gets to the hospital?"

Jimmy nodded and replied, "Of course, Doctor Mallard."

He hurriedly pulled off his smock and jogged out of Autopsy to get into the elevator with Tony just as the doors began to close. He was still wearing scrubs but had his gym clothes in his car. He could throw the smelly t-shirt and shorts into the wash and change into them once he drove Tony and himself to his friend's apartment.

Meanwhile, Autopsy had gone silent. The hum of the freezer units and the building's central air-conditioning seemed deafening as Abby and Ducky's eyes turned towards Gibbs, looking for answers and guidance as to what to do next.

But the ringing of Gibbs' cell phone saved him from having to do any reassuring.

"Yeah. Gibbs…Be right there."

* * *

No matter how many times he experienced it for himself, NCIS Director Leon Vance still found himself annoyed whenever Gibbs threw open the doors to his office and barged in like he owned the place.

"You called, Leon?" Gibbs said, his tone making it clear that he had better things to do.

Vance often wondered at what point Gibbs decided that he would no longer care about normal social niceties, but today, he got straight to the point.

"I've been getting calls all day from DC Metro, Homeland, FBI, ATF, and pretty much every other government agency with an acronym wanting to take over this case," Vance said, his own tone making it clear that he did not appreciate being called in on a Sunday, not when he'd been in the middle of treating his son's sports team to a celebratory dinner. "Meanwhile, I find out that the woman who is currently a person of interest in said case is currently holed up in the State Department and I can't get through to anyone senior enough to be useful over there. How bad is it?"

"Oh, it's bad," Gibbs answered, as if his simple reply would explain everything.

This just served to annoy Vance. "You've got to be more specific than that, Gibbs."

"We've gone to war for less, Leon."

"My god." Vance leaned heavily back in his chair and rubbed at his mustache. "SecNav was halfway over the Pacific en route to Japan. He's turned his plane around and is-"

Gibbs phone rang once again, interrupting Vance mid-sentence. He pulled it from his belt without giving much thought to the way Vance's nostrils flared.

"Yeah. Gibbs." He listened to the person on the other end before perfunctorily snapping his phone shut. "McGee's got something."

* * *

McGee craned his neck from his desk so that he could see the people on the catwalk above the bullpen, trying to see if Gibbs was coming down in response to his call. Eventually, however, his neck began to hurt, so he turned in his chair to face his computer monitor in order to ease his tense muscles.

He let out a soft groan as he used one hand to massage his neck and ended up practically jumping out of his chair when he heard Gibbs say, "What've you got, McGee?"

"Boss! Director," McGee stammered when he saw the two men standing in front of his desk. He continued, while still flustered, to speak. "I've been going through footage from the different cameras around Ziva's building and trying to match people to the composite sketch we got from Dr. Hampton's description. I saw a couple of people who could be a match and ran them through the facial recognition software."

There was a beat when the three men just looked at each other before Gibbs prodded with an annoyed, "And?"

McGee's eyebrows shot up as he realized that he hadn't finished he report. "Oh! I got a positive match and it's interesting."

Gibbs jerked his chin upwards and said, "Put it up on the plasma."

"Right, Boss."

McGee typed a command onto his keyboard and a passport photo appeared on the plasma screen next to his desk.

"Ahmet Hadar," McGee read from the dossier he had on his computer. "Cultural Attaché at the Israeli Embassy. He's been stationed here in DC since January."

"Cultural Attaché my ass," Vance interjected almost angrily. "I've worked with him before. The man's Mossad. Specialized in wet work as well as cleaning up other operatives' messes."

Gibbs turned towards Vance and said, "He's got an official cover."

To which Vance replied, "Which means he has diplomatic immunity."

The men lapsed into silence as they considered the ramifications of what they'd just found out.

"Why the hell is Mossad going after their own?" Vance asked to no one in particular. "They usually go to the ends of the earth to protect each other. What has David gotten herself into?"

"I-I-I'd have no idea, Director," McGee said from where he sat at his desk.

Vance shot him a glare and snapped, "I wasn't talking to you."

Gibbs turned towards the Director and quietly said, in a tone that bordered on snide, "Maybe you should ask Ziva herself."

Vance just let out a low growl from the back of his throat and stalked off towards his office, leaving McGee and Gibbs to watch his progress through the bullpen and up the stairs to the catwalk.

Once Vance was out of sight, McGee looked at Gibbs, who had his back turned to him, and asked, "Wet work, Boss?"

Gibbs didn't turn around when he answered simply with, "Assassinations made to look like something other than murder, McGee."

And a beat later, he added, "Get that evidence over to Abby."


End file.
